I shook Tom awake to show him the note. He sat up and rubbed at his eyes, and read it over three times before comprehension dawned. He choked, tried not to cry. He and I were both fourteen now. Birthdays came and went without parties or any kind of celebrations to mark our years.
"What y'all doin up so early?" grumbled Fanny, grouchy as she always was when she came out of sleep and found her bones stiff from hard floorboards and not enough padding between her skeleton and the floor. "I don't smell no biscuits bakin, no bacon fryin . . . see no gravy in t'pan."
"Ma's gone," I said in a small voice.
"Ma wouldn't do that," said Fanny, sitting up and looking around. "She's in t'outhouse."
"Ma don't leave notes to Pa when she does that," Tom reasoned. "All her things are gone--what little she had."
"But t'food, t'food, I see food on t'table!" screeched Fanny, jumping up and running to grab a banana. "Bet ya Pa came back an brought all this here stuff . . . an he an Ma are out somewhere fightin."
When I gave it more thought, it seemed very likely that Pa had slipped into the cabin at night, left the food, then drove off without a word to anyone; and perhaps finding the food there, and knowing Pa hadn't bothered to stay or even greet her, had given Sarah the final motivation to leave, thinking now we had food to provide for us until he came back again.
How oddly Our Jane and Keith took the absence of Sarah, as if they'd always lived on unstable ground and Sarah had never given either one enough loving attention to make any difference. Both came running to me, staring up into my face. "Hey-lee," cried Our Jane, "ya ain't goin nowhere, are ya?"
How fearful those big aqua eyes. How beautiful the small doll face that looked up into mine. I tousled her reddish blond hair. "No, darling, I'm staying. Keith, come closer so I can give you a big hug. We're going to have fried apples and sausage for breakfast today, with our biscuits . . . and see, Pa brought us margarine. Someday we're going to eat real butter, aren't we, Tom?"
"Well, I sure hope so," he said as he picked up the package of oleo. "But I'm glad right now we have this. Hey, do you really think Pa came in the night, like Santa Claus, and left all this stuff?"
"Who else would?"
He agreed. As hateful and mean as Pa was, he did try to see that we were kept fed, and as warm as possible.
Now life got down to basics. Sarah had run out and Granny was dead.
Grandpa couldn't do anything but sit and stare, and whittle. I went to his rocker where he'd slept bent over and miserable-looking all night, took his hand, and helped him to stand. "Tom, see that Grandpa visits the outhouse while I fix breakfast, and after he's eaten, give him more wood to whittle, for durn if I can stand seeing him doing nothing at all."
I guess that breakfast on such a heartrending day made it somewhat easier, when we had hot sausages to eat and fried apples and taters, and biscuits with what had to taste as good as butter.
"Wish we had a cow," said Tom, who worried about none of us drinking enough milk. "Wish Pa hadn't gambled away our last one."
"Ya could steal one," contributed Fanny, who knew all about stealing. "Skeeter Burl's got t'one that used t'be ours. Pa don't have no right to gamble away our cow so steal it back, Tom."
I felt hollow inside, beset with worries far too heavy for my years; when I gave it more thought, I realized there was many a girl my age with a family of her own. Still, those girls didn't desire a college education as I did. They were happy to live out their lives being wives and mothers, and living in shacks, and if their men beat them once a week, they thought it their due.
"Heaven, aren't ya comin?" Tom asked as he readied himself for school.
I glanced again at Grandpa, at Our Jane who was feeling poorly. She'd barely tasted the best breakfast we'd had in weeks.
"You go on, Tom, with Fanny and Keith. I can't leave Our Jane when she's not feeling well. And I want to see that Grandpa doesn't just sit and rock and forget to walk around."
"He's all right. He can take care of Our Jane."
I knew, even as he said that, he didn't believe it; he blushed and bowed his head and looked so miserable I felt like crying again. "In a few days we'll all adjust, Tom. Life will go on, you'll see."
"I'll stay home," Fanny volunteered. "An I'll take kerr of Our Jane an Grandpa."
"A perfect solution," Tom agreed happily. "Fanny's not ever going to finish high school. She's old enough to do somethin simple."
"Okay," I said as a test. "Fanny, first you'll have to give Our Jane a cool bath. You'll have to see that she drinks eight glasses of water a day, and make her eat a little food off and on, and walk Grandpa back and forth to the outhouse, and do what you can to clean up and keep this place tidy."
"Goin t'school," stated Fanny. "I ain't no slave t'Grandpa, ain't no motha t'Our Jane. I'm goin where t'boys are."
I might have known.
Reluctantly Tom backed toward the door. "What should I tell Miss Deale?"
"Don't you tell her Sarah ran off and left us!" I flared hotly. "You just say I'm staying home to help out with all there is to do when Grandpa's feeling bad and Our Jane is sick. That's all you tell her,
understand?"
"But she could help."
"How?"
"I don't know how, but I'll bet she could think of something."
"Thomas Luke, if you hope to reach your goals in life, you can't go around begging for help. You rise above all difficulties and find your own solutions. Together you and I will see this family through, and find ways to stay healthy. You say anything you have to say to keep Logan and Miss Deale unaware that Ma has walked out on us . . . for she might come back any minute, once she realizes what she did was wrong. We wouldn't want to shame her, would we?"
"No," he breathed, appearing relieved. "She sure could come back once she thinks more about how wrong it is to go."
He took Keith's right hand, and Fanny took Keith's left hand, and off they set toward the school, leaving me standing on the porch with Our Jane in my arms. She wailed to see Keith trudging dutifully toward school, while I longed to be there with them.
First thing I did after bathing Our Jane and putting her into the big brass bed was to hand Grandpa his whittling knives and his pieces of prime wood. "Whittle something Granny would like, say a doe with big sad eyes. Granny had a special liking for does--didn't she?"
He blinked once or twice, glanced at the empty rocking chair he refused to use even though it was the best one, and two fat tears slid down his wrinkled cheeks. "Fer Annie," he whispered when he picked up his favorite knife.
I turned my attention back to Our Jane, and dosed her fever as I thought Granny would have done, with herbal medicine, and then I set about doing all that Sarah used to do before she turned on us.
Tom seemed stricken when he came from school to see if Ma had returned and found she hadn't. "I guess it's up t'me now t'be the man in t'family," he said, as if overwhelmed by all he'd have to do. "Won't be no money comin in if somebody doesn't go out an make it. Yard jobs are hard t'find when ya don't have t'right equipment. Stores don't give away food staples, an what we got won't last nearly long enough. An we sure could all use new shoes. Heavenly, ya kin't go t'school wearin shoes without toes."
"I can't go to school, shoes or not," I said tonelessly, wiggling my toes that stuck out of shoes much too small, so I'd had to cut them. "You know I can't leave Grandpa alone, and Our Jane isn't well enough to go back to school. Tom, if only we had money enough to take her to a doctor."
"Doctors kin't help what she's got," mumbled Grandpa with his head bowed low. "Somethin inside Our Jane don't work right, an ain't no doctor kin give her what she needs."
"But how do you know that, Grandpa?" I challenged.
"Annie had a youngun once, same as Our Jane. Put him in a hospital, they did. Cost me an Annie all our savins . . . an didn't do one bit of good. Sweetest boy I eva had up an died on Easter Sunday. Tole myself he was like Christ on t'cross, too good an too sweet fer this mean ole
world."
There went Grandpa talking just like Granny, when he'd never said much of anything when she lived. "Grandpa, don't say things like that!"
"No, Grandpa," put in Tom, holding fast to my hand. "Doctors can save people from dying. Medicine gets better year by year. What killed your son doesn't have to kill Our Jane."
Tom stared at me with wide, frightened eyes as we readied ourselves for bed after a meal of more fried taters, more sausage, and biscuits and gravy, and apples for desert. All the energy drained from his eyes. "What are we gonna do, Heavenly?"
"Don't you worry, Tom. You, Fanny, Keith, and Our Jane will go to school. I'll stay home and take care of Grandpa, and do the wash, and cook the meats. I know how," I finished defiantly.
"But it's you who loves school, not Fanny."
"Don't matter. Fanny's not responsible enough to stay home and run things."
"She acts that way on purpose," said Tom, tears in his eyes. "Heavenly, no matter what you say, I am gonna tell Miss Deale. Maybe she can think of something that will help."
"No! You can't do that. We've got our pride, Tom, if we don't have anything else. Let's save something we can cherish."
Pride was important to both of us. Perhaps because it was something free, something that made us feel important. We, Tom and I, had to prove ourselves to the world, and also to ourselves. Fanny wasn't included in our pact. Fanny already had proven herself untrustworthy.
seven Coping
. TOM HURRIED HOME EACH DAY TO HELP ME WITH THE wash, with the floor scrubbing, with taking care of Our Jane; then he'd chop wood, always he had to chop wood. Sometimes we all ran about madly, trying to round up hogs and pigs that had escaped our frail fence rails, our chickens which were one by one being killed off by bobcats or foxes, or stolen by vagabonds.
"Did Logan ask about me again today?" I quizzed when I'd missed three days of school.
"He sure did. Got me after school and wanted to know where you are. How ya are. Why ya don't come. I told him Sarah is still sick, an Our Jane, too, an ya had to stay home an take care of everybody. Boy, ya never saw anybody look so unhappy as he did."
I was happy to know that Logan really cared, and at the same time I felt angry to be so mired in our troubles. With a pa who had syphilis. With a stepmother who ran out on her responsibilities. Oh, life wasn't fair!
I was angry at the world, at Pa most of all, for he'd started all of this. And what did I go and do but turn on the person I loved most. "Stop saying yer instead of your--and ya instead of you!"
Tom grinned. "I love you, Heavenly. Now, did I say that right? I appreciate what you do to make this a family . . . did I say that correctly? I'm glad you are what you are, different from Fanny."
I sobbed, turned, and fell into his arms, thinking he was the best thing in my life--and how could I tell him now that I wasn't wonderful, special, or anything but a cynical, hateful person who hated my life, and the man who'd made it what it was?
Two weeks after Sarah left I just happened to glance out a front window and there was Tom trekking home with more books, and beside him was Logan! Tom had broken his word and told Logan of our desperate situation!
Instantly I went on the defensive and ran to the door, blocking both Tom's and Logan's entrance. "Let us in, Heavenly," ordered Tom. "It's mighty cold out here for you to stand there in the way like a human wall."
"LET EM IN!" shrieked Fanny. "YER LETTIN OUT T'HEAT!"
"You don'twant to come in here," I said hostilely to Logan. "City boys like you would shiver with disgust."
I saw his lips tighten with surprise; then came his voice of calm determination. "Heaven, step aside. I am coming in. I am going to find out just why you don't go to school anymore--and Tom's right, it is cold out here. My feet feel like ice."
Still I wouldn't move. Behind Logan Tom signaled wildly for me to stop acting like a fool, and let Logan in. "Heavenly . . you'll waste all our wood if you keep holding that door open."
I started to push the door shut, but Logan forced me backward and entered with Tom close behind him. It took both of them to shove the door closed when the wind was so strong behind it. For a lock we had a board that dropped down and secured the door as a latch.
His face cold and red, Logan turned to me apologetically. "I'm sorry I had to do that, but I no longer believe Tom when he says Our Jane is sick and Sarah isn't feeling well. I want to know what's going on."
He had on dark glasses. Why, on a dull gray winter day when the sunlight was frail and hardly existent? He wore a warm winter jacket that reached his hips, while poor Tom had only secondhand sweaters, worn in layers that at least kept his upper torso warm, if not his bottom half.
I stepped aside, resigned. "Come in, Sir Logan, said the maiden in distress, and enjoy what you see."
He stepped closer, turned his head, seeming to peer around, while Tom hurried over to the stove and began to warm his hands, his feet, before he even bothered to take off a few sweaters. Fanny, crouched as close to the stove as possible, was not about to give up her place or her bed pallet, though she did set about combing her hair in a big hurry, and she fluttered her long black lashes and smiled at Logan invitingly. "Come sit here with me, Logan."
Tom ignored her, as did Logan. "Well," said Tom cheerfully, "this is home to us, Logan."
Obviously Logan didn't know what to say, so he said nothing.
"You really don't need sunglasses in here, Logan," said I, moving to pick up Our Jane; then I sat to rock her back and forth in Granny's old rocker. The minute I did that, the squeaking of the floor
encouraged Grandpa to reach for his whittling and be1 t another rabbit. His eyesight for near work was very good, but once you were six feet away, he couldn't see much. I suppose I must have looked to him like Granny when she was young and holding a child on her lap. Keith ran to climb up on my lap as well, though he was getting too big and heavy for this kind of cuddling. Still, the three of us together warmed each other.
It was so embarrassing to have Logan here, at our poorest time. I busied myself wiping Our Jane's runny nose, and I tried to put her tousled hair in order. I didn't notice what Logan did until he was seated near the table, and he had his head turned my way. "It's a long, cold walk up this mountain, Heaven. The least you could do is make me feel welcome," he said with reproach in his voice. "Where's Sarah? I mean your mother."
"We don't have an indoor bathroom," I said harshly. "She's out there."
"Oooh . ." His voice was weak, his face flushed from my frank information. "Where's your pa?" "Working somewhere."
"I wish I could have known your granny. And I'm still sorry."
So was I.
So was Grandpa, who stopped whittling and looked up, a fleeting shaft of sorrow wiping away the contentment he'd just found in some memory image.
"Tom, I've got my hands full. Would you please boil some water so we can serve Logan hot tea, or cocoa?"
Tom stared at me with astonishment and spread his hands wide. He knew we didn't have tea or cocoa.
Still, he rummaged about in the almost empty cabinet, and came up with some of Granny's sassafras, giving Logan worried looks before he put the water on to boil.
"No, thank you, Tom, Heaven. I've got only a short time to stay, and it's a long trek back to Winnerrow. I want to get there before dark since I don't know my way like you do, being a city boy." Logan smiled my way, then leaned forward. "Heaven, tell me how you are. Surely your mother can look out for Our Jane when she's sick. And Fanny's stopped going to school-- why?"
"Oh," said Fanny, looking more alert, "ya missed me, huh? Why, ain't that sweet of ya. Who else misses me? Anybody been askin where I am?"
"Sure," Logan said in an offhand way, still staring at me, "all of us wonder why the two prettiest girls in the school stay away."
What could I say to embellish bleak lives of hunger and cold? All he had to do was look around to see how poorly we lived. Why did he just keep his head turned toward me, refusing to stare
at a room with no creature comforts but those rolled-up straw mattresses we put on the floor? "Why are you wearing dark glasses, Logan?"
He stiffened. "I guess I never told you I wear contacts. That last fight I had, well, a fist hit me in the eye, and the lens cut my iris, and now my
ophthalmologist wants me to keep strong light out of my eyes, and when you favor one eye, you have to favor the other as well, or wear an eyepatch. I prefer the shades."
"Then you can hardly see a thing, can you?"
He flushed. "Not much, to be honest. I see you as a dim figure . . . and I think you've got Our Jane and Keith on your lap."
"Logan, she's not Our Jane t'ya . only t'us,"
Fanny spoke up. "Ya kin call her jus Jane."
"I want to call her what Heaven calls her."
"Kin ya see me?" Fanny asked, standing up, and when she did, she had on only her panties with several of Granny's old shawls about her shoulders . . . and beneath those shawls she was bare from the waist up. Her tiny breasts were just beginning to poke out like hard green apples. Fanny carelessly let the shawl fall open as she rose and sauntered about barefooted. Oh, the shame of her doing that, in front of Logan. . . and Tom!
"Go put on clothes," ordered Tom, red-faced. "Ya ain't got enough of anything fer anyone t'notice anyway."
"But I will have!" screamed Fanny. "Have bigga an betta than Heaven eva will!"
Logan stood to go. He waited for Tom as if he needed help finding the door--when it was right in front of him. "If you can't talk to me when I walk all this way, Heaven, I'm not coming again. I thought you knew I am your friend. I came to prove that I care, and I worry when I don't see you for so long. Miss Deale worries. Just tell me this before I go. . . are you all right? Do you need anything?" He paused for my answer, and when I didn't give it, he asked: "Do you have enough food? Wood? Coal?"
"We don't have enough of nothin!" yelled Fanny loudmouth.
Logan kept his eyes on me, not on Fanny, who'd covered herself again and was now curled up as if half asleep.